


God's Teeth

by coefore



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Biting, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Soft Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 07:58:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9481913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coefore/pseuds/coefore
Summary: In the dark of his closed eyes, he felt like melting, he felt like his old body could be made anew, that he counted something in that whole mischievous scheme that was his life.George blinked, feeling the man’s hair falling on his neck. His mouth open, his teeth sharp.God’s teeth.





	

**Author's Note:**

> God's teeth: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SQU50TncRos
> 
> I love Solidus, he needed somebody to hold onto.

There were evergreen trees in the gardens, splendid, untouched by the changing of seasons. The large windows of the oval office filled the room with light, and the plants’ warning. _You will die, you are perishable._

George lifted up his reading glasses to rub his sore eyes. Everything was always so frenetic, everyone always counted on him to make the right decision, to deal with the nation and its citizens. He dropped his glasses on the desk, letting out a huff as he reclined back on his chair.

Nobody really used the name _George_ to refer to him. He was Solidus Snake, as if his birth name was a joke, decided just to fill a form.

He swirled around to face the windows and the afternoon light fading. His adamant, stern face resembled the one of the legendary Big Boss, _the spitting image_ of his father whom he never met but respected dearly. _He fought for his beliefs_ , he was told, _he died for them._ George always thought that was remarkable and maybe the blood on his hands would be worth something, someday.

He took pride in his resemblance to this figure, since the people who had raised him liked to remind him he was a clone. There was nothing else he could pride himself in; even the election were rigged and he had won because The Patriots wanted him to win. How could a devilish soldier like him win honestly. Sometimes, he remembered all the child soldiers whose lives he had ruined, and the way he felt it was something that couldn’t be avoided. He had been a child soldier too, in a way, but his body never reflected who he really was.

Every passing year he looked older, and older, coming closer to death. He had adopted a son when he was nineteen, killing the baby’s rightful parents; he looked like an almost thirty-year-old man at the time.

Now, he really was in his thirties, but his body seemed the one of a man in his late fifties or early sixties. His eyesight was getting worse, his body had started to ache and everyday he felt an urgency, a pain in his chest and his mind. Like a biological clock ticking.

 _You are the spitting image of Big Boss_ , those words echoing in his head.

 _You are Big Boss_ , his consciousness roared in, trying to soothe this unnerving sensation. And yet, a questioning voice always muted out everything else.

_Who am I?_

_George Sears?_

_Who_ is _he?_

George’s head flopped down and a hand cover his face, as if to stop all these thoughts. He frowned.

_Will people remember me?_

It was all he could think of. He always did what he was told to do. He killed, he slaughtered, he turned children into soldiers, he even became the president of the United States. He was made to _enjoy_ that, crave the suffering. How fitting, for the copy of a great leader to search the approval of others.

_Will anyone remember me?_

How pitiful, still.

All those roaming thoughts abruptly stopped, as his secretary beeped in with a rushed voice.

“Mr. President, you might have an unannounced guest.”

The woman managed to say the sentence before being cut off by the door opening and some bodyguards shouting _hey, you’re not allowed in yet_.

George swirled the chair back in a second, facing the entry door. A tall, pale man waltzed it, unfazed by the bodyguards jolting in after him. A somewhat eerie, unpredictable smile crossed his face while he studied the men from foot to head. He had a frightening look to him.

The President’s hand waved and the room became a staring contest between the ghastly man and George’s deep blue eyes.

“Vamp.”

His voice was firm, but there was an annoyed tone to it. His eyes were analysing the slender, yet muscular body hidden under the brown trench coat the other man was wearing, his thick, black hair falling further down his shoulders. George felt the weight of his years a little more.

“Ocelot told me,” Vamp swiftly moved closer, like a creeping scorpion, “to hand you this.”

One of his gloved hands popped a thick binder of papers on the desk, to which the President adamantly started to look through, back to wear his glasses. His leg started to jump in place, nervous for whatever reason.

“You’re dismissed.” He ordered, but Vamp’s task there wasn’t done yet.

“Oh, King,” he leaned on the desk with one hand, some locks of his hair falling down on his neckline, “you seemed to be overworking yourself.”

At that _nickname_ , so to speak, George rose his face from work and frowned a little. Vamp was uncomfortable to be around. A disturbing presence, emanating both a lethal and predatorily aura.

But Vamp had never met Big Boss.

Vamp only knew George for who he was.

Vamp only called George, _King_.

“I said, you are dismissed.”

“I know a way to ease stress.” His strong Romanian accent sneaked onto every word like a carnivorous tongue, moving around the table as his hand traced the wooden edges with a finger. George just turned on his chair, following the other man's motion.

“Allow me, King.”

Every time his tongue clicked to spell that word, George felt a little more intrigued. A little more trusting. From his father, he had gained much of his strength, way more than his intellect and all of his naiveté.

Vamp took the edge of one of his gloves’ fingers and slowly slid it off, repeating the gesture with the other hand, before stepping closer.

_What would Big Boss do?_

_Father, what should I do?_

George’s ice-cold eyes seemed detached, in a constant, marked scowl.

“Ten minutes.” Suddenly Vamp was in front of him as he stated that, “I give you ten minutes.”

 _How disgraceful_ , he thought.

The man’s hands were on his shoulders now, massaging them, his thumbs caringly pressing in circles on his old, sore body.

“Close your eyes.” George heard him whisper in his deep, sly voice. It was enchanting. He did as suggested, as following orders was in his blood. The touch of foreign hands was welcomed by his whole being, as needy as he was for a break. It felt like ten hands touching him, all together at the same time and his face started to grow warmer.

Then, it all just stopped. And as the hands halted their massage, George opened his eyes. He didn’t have the time to properly react, as he was an accomplice to being swept up on his feet. His glasses tilted a little for the sudden movement, while Vamp made their bodies touch together, their chests pressed together. The man’s hand placed at the end of George’s back, quite the forward position.

“What is this?” he glared at him in confusion. He knew what Vamp wanted, he knew it very well. It was miserable, pathetic, but knowing someone still felt like holding him made George feel

Special.

“I told you, King.” The hand tasted George’s hips as if it were to eat it. His fingers were feeling the soft edges that had become a sad reality in the President’s life, since he had become older. Leaving the fields and retiring to deskwork didn’t help. Vamp’s other hand cupped the other hip, as George weakly tried to break away.

In reality, he didn’t want Vamp to let go.

He liked the attention.

Just for him,

Not for Big Boss,

Not for Solidus,

Just for George.

“Is this your way to make me relax?” he asked, clearly, masking his embarrassed tone as if nothing was happening. His face was flushing under the glasses. Vamp smirked and moved the President towards the desk, until George felt his rear touching on its edges.

The man’s hands slid down, brushing against George’s trousers and he allowed himself to sit on the hard surface. His eyes were focused into Vamp’s, until he felt the need to shut them up; go to an undisturbed blackness. The ten-hands-like caresses began once more, his body reacting consequently. The hot sensation running throughout his figure, he was on the edge. Now Vamp was touching his back, then his stomach, his cheeks.

His cheeks.

George let out a soft, modest gasp of pleasure for such _love_ , such _interest_ in him. The foreign visitors on his body roamed to his shirt’s buttons, opening some, undoing his tie.

In the dark of his closed eyes, he understood what melting meant, he felt like his old body could be made anew, that he counted something in that whole mischievous scheme that was his life.

George blinked, feeling the man’s hair falling on his neck as he had moved closer. His mouth open, his teeth sharp.

God’s teeth.

They were white and deadly, but full of life and pleasure. _Give me that_ , George thought, _make me feel alive_. _Make me feel_

_Worth_

_For somebody_

_Anybody._

Vamp bit the neck, like a vampire, like a demon. George’s fingers curled up in that slight pain, that was nothing compared to a bullet in the leg, a knife in your back. Yet, in that moment it stung like death’s scythe, reminding him how his life was all a pitiful show for someone to exploit.

_Could a clone, a deranged person like him enjoy this? Was he allowed to?_

George bit his lip as Vamp kept nibbling on his neck, his hand moving inside his shirt, caressing his well-built chest, taking a handful of one his breasts. He felt Vamp’s cold fingers stroke it, masterfully, but with a certain delicate touch to it.

 _King_ , George heard his murmur in his ear, _you’re plenty._

His whole body was on fire. George found himself staring yet again into the other man’s eyes, and he reached out his hand to take that face in his control, sharply clasping Vamp’s bony cheeks with his fingers, brushing against the Romanian’s beard.

“Ten minutes.” He breathed out. The President questioned himself as to why he stopped this all, finding an answer only in his endurance.

If he endured, he wouldn’t miss it. If he learnt how to live without this need of worth, this need of _self_ , this need of _being George_.

He pushed Vamp away very easily, showing how the man was just allowed to serve him as the President pleased. A tool for the weak of mind. Then, George carefully pushed his glasses up,  buttoning back his shirt with both hands. Vamp’s eyes were on him, he could feel his smile.

“You’re one of a kind, King.”

Vamp passed a hand on George’s ruffled hair, as if to help him claiming back his presidential attire. He kept buttoning up, his scowl deeper, his cheeks redder.

“Get out now.”

“Of course.”

Vamp knew when to say the right thing at the right moment. He seemed to fancy his boss for how bizarre that man was, as bizarre as he was himself. He bowed a little, his arm in front of his chest, like in front of royalty.

In front of a king.

“See you soon, boss.”

_Boss._

It reminded George that, in any case, he was still someone else’s copy.

As Vamp left the room, he knew Ocelot’s eyes had never seen anyone but Big Boss in him, how the Patriots only thought of him as a pawn to substitute a flaming corpse.

But Vamp’s eyes were different.

Vamp’s eyes had only ever seen George Sears.


End file.
